Roots of Evil(37)

Lucy’s heartbeat punched breath-snatchingly against her ribcage, and she leaned forward, hardly daring to blink in case she missed anything.

‘A smooth-as-silk landing for a smooth-as-silk lady,’ said the commentator in a rather knowing, nudge-nudge, manner as the huge plane touched down. ‘The baroness, on her way to Switzerland, travelled in her usual style, thanks to Mr Hughes’ generosity.’

Switzerland, thought Lucy. Switzerland.

There was a three-quarters close-up of Lucretia descending the plane’s steps, stepping as delicately as a cat on four-inch heels. Even on the scratched foggy film, the mesmeric allure was apparent. Lucy, who had not watched any of Lucretia’s films for years, had forgotten how incandescently lovely and how smoulderingly sexy Lucretia had been. No wonder you slayed them in the aisles, grandmamma.

‘And,’ said the commentator archly, ‘for the ladies who are watching, our fashion editors say the baroness is wearing Christian Dior’s New Look.’

Behind Lucy, the projectionist sneezed and blew his nose with gusto.

‘But something that isn’t a fashion accessory is the cuddlesome armful,’ went on the commentator. ‘On this trip, Madame von Wolff had with her the newest addition to her family – the ten-month-old Mariana, named, so we’re given to understand, for the lady in Tennyson’s famous gothic poem.’

Lucy felt like sneezing disgustedly herself at this, because gothic Tennysonian poetry and Lucretia von Wolff were not terms you would expect to encounter in the same sentence. Still, Mariana had been her mother, so there was interest in seeing the chubby toddler who was eyeing the camera dubiously.

The commentator made the predictable remark about the baby having her mamma’s affinity with a camera, which Lucy thought was stretching it a good deal, and then said, ‘Also on this journey, the baroness seems to have brought along another small friend.’

Without any warning, the camera panned down to an older child at Lucretia’s side – a child of perhaps seven or eight years. And this time there was no forced jollity about affinity with a camera. Deepset eyes, slightly tilted above high cheekbones, stared suspiciously from under a square fringe; the dark hair was cut short, and for a boy it would have been slightly too long, for a girl slightly short. Which is it? thought Lucy, her eyes fixed on the screen.

There was time to register that the child was wearing a kind of butcher-boy’s cap and a buttoned jacket, and then the camera swung back to Lucretia. The commentator gave a few more technical details about the plane, and although there was an almost throwaway reference to Lucretia’s plans to make a film at Ashwood Studios next year, it was fairly clear that the point of the newsclip had been the juxtaposition of the eccentric Howard Hughes, the opulent aeroplane, and the infamous Lucretia von Wolff.

The screen flickered and the clip ended, and Lucy sat back, her mind whirling. Had that been Alraune? Was there anyone else it could conceivably be? It could not be Deborah, for Deb would have been thirteen or so by this time, and in any case, Deb had never possessed that thatch of dark hair, or those deep eyes. Right up to her death Deb had had a beautifully smooth English-rose complexion, and bright blue eyes.

The date was about right for Alraune, who was supposed to have been born at the outbreak of war – say 1939 or 1940. What was this clip’s date? 1947, was it? Yes, October 1947. In 1947, Alraune would have been seven or eight, which meant the dates fitted. The journey to Switzerland might fit as well, because part of Alraune’s legend was the exodus to a neutral country. Had that country been Switzerland?

But, thought Lucy, am I forcing the facts to fit my theory? That child could have been anyone. A friend’s child, or the child of one of the air-crew. But she went on staring at the darkened screen. Had she just seen a fragment of the past that everyone had always insisted never existed?





CHAPTER ELEVEN




Francesca Holland thought life must be so much easier for people who did not have a conscience. People without a conscience, for instance, would not have spent a Friday afternoon fighting to get out of London (the M25 was at a standstill again!) to a house in the back of beyond.

Most people had thought Fran was mad to be making the trip. Most likely Trixie had simply gone off to interview somebody in connection with her thesis, they said; she was taking it very seriously, that thesis. Anyway, Fran was out of her tree to be dashing off into the wide blue yonder like this.

To all of the protests and reassurances Francesca had said, ‘Yes, but the dogs. Trixie would never go off and leave the dogs,’ and people had said vaguely, oh well, you could never tell, and had melted away because no one had really wanted to take on the responsibility.

That had been when Francesca had known she would have to take the responsibility herself, because Trixie had been good to her since the day Fran had got home early and found Marcus in their bed with a blonde. Trixie had been the one who had come into the senior staff-room that day and said that if Fran liked, she could have the spare room for a few weeks. Until things got sorted out, she had said, and Francesca had accepted, because there had not seemed to be anything else to do and she could not think where else to go. Walking out on your husband in just the clothes you had on and with only the money you had in your handbag was a deeply satisfying gesture, but it brought a few practical problems – especially when you tried to sneak back later to pack a suitcase and retrieve your credit cards, and discovered your husband had changed all the locks and that his blonde was already firmly in residence.